My Highland Bride (Kingdoms of Meria Book 2) Page 13

  Erik and I will never consummate our marriage.

  If the act hinges on my heart being free of uncertainty about Queen Cettina, I should pack my belongings this very day and leave for home. Or at least resolve not to have the kind of marriage I’ve hoped for these past days.

  Sitting before me is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met. Nay, not only beautiful, but self-assured as well. As she spoke with Erik, each word fell from her lips like an arrow, quick and sure. It left me feeling like I always do at river crossings. Although I no longer break out in tears anymore, my hands still shake. My heart still pounds with visions of the current carrying me away.

  The queen stands now, her hair the color of straw, but brighter and glossier, a silver circlet around the top of her head. She looks younger than I expected, no older than I am, but also much, much wiser, as if she’s lived many lifetimes.

  The queen’s face is kissed by the sun, with smooth cheeks and perfectly formed brows. In short, she is . . . perfection. And seemingly very unhappy about my marriage to Erik. She walks toward me now, head held high, but I stand tall.

  As she approaches, her scent wafts toward me. The sweet smell of berries, something I hadn’t expected. Something in me quails, but I force myself to imagine my father, defiant and proud. He allows nothing to sway him. Whether he is right or wrong, he always acts with complete conviction, which can be a curse as often as it is a blessing. But in this moment, I need his confidence.

  I am Lord Moray’s daughter, and I will not cower.

  She stops.

  “I bid Stokerton to gain the Highlanders’ support, and he returns with a bride. How did this come to be?”

  Why is she not asking Erik that very question?

  “My father saw an opportunity in Lord Stokerton’s request. To ally our families. To see me married, finally.”

  Her eyes flash in anger. Does she love my husband after all?

  “Was this marriage against your will?”

  “Nay,” I say as forcefully as I am able.

  Her shoulders sag, her eyes close. Her reaction is so surprising, I know not what to do. Or say. So I just fold my hands in front of me and wait.

  Her eyes open, considerably softer than before.

  “When I heard about your marriage, I feared . . . Erik would do anything for Edingham.”

  For the first time since I came into this chamber, the queen smiles. A broad smile that appears so genuine, I am taken aback.

  “You willed it, then?” she asks again.

  I’d assumed she was angry Erik had married. Could it have been concern rather than anger?

  “I did,” I say, my hands still folded together. “I knew him when we were young, before our fathers stopped speaking. Our joining was my decision. My father told Erik we could not wed without my permission.”

  She appears more than a little surprised.

  “Your father is indulgent.”

  “Aye. After my younger sister died, he became even more so.”

  A shadow crosses her face, and then I remember she lost, and regained, a sister too. If only I could bring Fara back.

  The queen shocks me again when she steps forward and reaches for my hands.

  “I am glad for it, then. I’d have preferred not to have your father’s support if it came at the cost of a forced marriage. But if you’ve chosen Erik as your husband,” she says, still smiling, “then I shall not have him tossed in the dungeon after all.”

  She has not yet released my hands, and it is an odd feeling indeed, to find the woman who’s caused me so much distress to be so kind and accommodating.

  “Welcome to court,” she says. “May I call you Reyne?”

  As if I would deny a queen.

  “Aye.”

  “In private you have leave to call me Cettina, as Erik does. I trust none as much as him, and I would very much like to have another confidant here at court.”

  “Surely you must have many,” I blurt out. “The Curia, your ladies, your . . .” I stop just before saying sister.

  The queen releases my hands and walks toward a cushioned trunk, gesturing for me to sit on another opposite it.

  “My sister,” she guesses, quite correctly, “travels with her husband.”

  I wince inwardly, knowing Erik’s news will complicate what is, for her, already a fraught relationship with her sister’s husband. He will need to be punished, just like the rest of the traitors.

  “Erik is the only member of the Curia not chosen by my father. Some are loyal to me, others—” she shrugs, “—in time will be replaced.”

  I gasp aloud before stopping myself. Such a thing is not done. The chancellor, commanders, and justiciary of the Curia are lifelong positions unless they choose otherwise. Even more surprising is that she would openly tell me such a thing. On our very first meeting.

  “As for my ladies?” The twinkle in the queen’s eyes can only be described as mischievous. “There is but one who wants nothing of me other than my love. She is a dear friend, and one I will introduce you to straightaway. The others . . .” She rolls her eyes. “All placed by my side for a specific purpose. Some by my father’s friends, and others by me. But not because I fully trust their or their families’ intentions.”

  I don’t know what to say.

  She is surrounded by people she does not love or trust. What must that be like?

  “I met your father once,” she says. “I remember him clearly.”

  No longer peeved at him, I think of my father fondly, missing him even now. I smile, imagining him at court. He would hate it. “That must have been many years ago?”

  She nods. “Aye, I was but a child. I remember asking my maid why his hair was so red. I’d never seen such a shade of hair before.”

  Laughing, I inadvertently reach up to my own hair. “We had that in common, before his turned grey,” I say.

  “I did not speak to him, but he smiled at me as he walked by. And as I’d done many times, with many men, I secretly wished to have him as a father. You see, mine did not smile. Not at me, at least.”

  From what I’ve heard of King Malcom, that does not surprise me.

  “He is a good father,” I say. “Kind and loving, in his own way. But he is not perfect.”

  “I’ve yet to meet a man or woman alive who can claim such a thing.”

  “Perfection?” I think of Erik. He is close. But I am not the only one tormented by ghosts.

  “You think of your husband.” She smiles knowingly. “I should ask him back. It seems he has important news?”

  “I will fetch him,” I say, standing. A day ago, I would never have dreamed I would be willingly bringing Erik to the queen, for any purpose, but I feel differently after meeting her. Despite the fact that the queen is indeed as beautiful, regal, and fierce as everyone whispers her to be, I am less afraid.

  She is exactly as Erik has described, and if Cettina is offering friendship, I shall take it.

  “And I gladly accept your offer . . . Cettina.”

  “I am glad, Reyne.”

  I step back, bow, and bid her adieu.

  With a final glance at Queen Cettina, I knock on the wooden doors of her chamber and wait as they creak open.

  24

  Erik

  “We learned of it by chance, Reyne’s brother having overheard a conversation that led us there.”

  Despite the importance of this discussion, I cannot help but think of the look Reyne gave me outside the chamber. She was worried.

  The entire time she was in here, speaking with Cettina, I paced back and forth in front of the door and imagined all manner of scenarios.

  Most of them ended with my wife being unhappy. It wasn’t until I spoke to Cettina myself that I understood the nature of her concern. Having spent much of her life beholden to the whims of her tyrannical father, Cettina has little tolerance for men who force their will upon women, in any manner. I wish she hadn’t thought the worst of me—I would never have forced an unwilling bride
to the altar—but I’m relieved she was concerned for my wife.

  My wife. I’m desperate to speak to her, but it will have to wait. Before this meeting with Cettina, I arranged for Reyne to be brought to our rooms and assigned a maid, so at least she will be comfortable.

  After reassuring Cettina that Moray would indeed urge the Highland Council to stand down, I started to explain what we had learned.

  “It appears the attack on Saitford was carried out not by Borderers but”—my fists clench into balls at my side—“by those wishing to incite a war with Meria.”

  Cettina, seated once again behind her desk, frowns.

  “Who?”

  “Lord Rawlins,” I say. Her scowl deepens, for we both know him to be a traitorous bastard. “And your brother-in-law . . . I saw him enter the dovecote.”

  As the news penetrates, Cettina’s shoulders rise and fall. Though she is angry, no doubt, this cannot come as a surprise. Whitley is the worst sort of man, one Cettina has loathed since her father first forced Lady Hilla to marry him. Marriage to a king’s daughter had completed his family’s rise to prominence, the coup Whitley himself had never failed to flout.

  Until the affair.

  Being cast out of court in such a way was the gravest possible insult, and his anger toward Hilla is palpable whenever I’m in their presence. Whether or not Lady Hilla did indeed have an affair with Lord Bowes, I can only speculate on. Cettina will not discuss her sister, and even though they have now been welcomed back at court, they do not reside here and I rarely see them.

  “Hilla is with him,” she says quietly.

  I was afraid that might be so. Hilla herself told Cettina that Lord Whitley no longer lets her out of his sight. Still, she refuses to leave him, even though her sister has begged her to do so and promised to grant her a divorce.

  “There is more dire news than that,” I continue. “We were set upon in the woods by a man named Father Aiken. I believe he is a Shadow Warrior.”

  Cettina has even less love for the Prima than she does her brother-in-law, and her expression says as much.

  “He claims to be a spy.”

  She looks doubtful, which I was as well.

  “He could have harmed us,” I admit. “None of us saw him approach. I chose to trust him, and the man did indeed give us solid information. He said a repeat of Saitford will occur in one month’s time, so less than a fortnight from now, at Firley Dinch.”

  Springing from her seat, just as I expected she might, Cettina asks, “Do you believe him?”

  “Could it be a trap? Aye. But we’ve no choice but to respond.”

  Though Firley Dinch is just a four-day ride from Breywood, we need time to prepare.

  “If the Elderman is honest, they will not know we’re coming. He claims less than thirty men will carry out the attack. Unmarked, as they were before. They will meet at dawn in ten days’ time outside Craighcebor.”

  A small village situated on the bank of the Terese River, just across the bridge from Firley Dinch, Craighcebor is both wealthy from trade and ravaged by constant skirmishes with the Merian Borderers.

  “Assemble the Curia,” she says, unaware that I’ve done so already, anticipating her response. They are likely either outside the doors or on their way here.

  “You will lead a force to Craighcebor, and I am coming.”

  She holds up a hand as I start to object.

  “My sister is there,” she says. “And we will send word to King Galfrid as well, to warn him of the attack. He will not have time to send men, but I would have him know this court is not complicit. If we are somehow unsuccessful in stopping them, I fear Rawlins and Whitley’s aim will find its target. Another Saitford will spark the very war we’ve worked so hard to avoid. And he should know the extent of the Prima’s interference as it does not bode well for either kingdom.”

  Though I agree with Cettina’s assessment, her plan is not without risks. If the Elderman is indeed setting a trap, warning the Merian king could cause more trouble than it averts. And little would I blame him. Two attacks such as Saitford against Edingham, and we would already be assembling an army against Meria.

  There is no reason to think Galfrid would not do the same.

  “This Elderman,” Cettina says, “will either help us prevent a war, or start one.”

  I think of Father Aiken’s deadly glare.

  “Aye,” I agree. And at this moment, I cannot say for certain which is the more likely outcome.

  25

  Erik

  “We leave tomorrow.”

  I’d hoped for at least a few more days at the castle to help Reyne become accustomed to Breywood, but fewer risks can be taken since Cettina has chosen to travel with Lord Scott and I to the border. The decision was made to leave in the morn so our men have time to firmly install themselves at Carwell Castle in Craighcebor.

  Reyne looks different with her hair piled atop her head. Her belongings will not arrive for some time, but her new maid somehow procured two new gowns for her. She’s wearing one of them now, dressed for supper in a cream gown with long, open sleeves lined with gold thread, her hair in stark contrast. She is so very lovely, and the thought of leaving her so soon makes me ache inside.

  “So soon,” she says, dejected. A sentiment I can understand.

  “Aye.” I stroll to a bowl of scented water left by the chambermaid. Tugging out of my surcoat, I am about to pull my shirt up to wash when Reyne’s look stops me.

  “I’m not accustomed to sharing my chamber,” I say, although truthfully I’m pleased to do so. Reyne is like the first bright flower to bloom in a field that has seen the ravages of winter. Since Isolda, I’ve shied away from the thought of marriage, necessary though I knew it would be someday, and yet, here she is, looking at me with a mixture of distress and . . . something more.

  “I’m glad you are here,” I clarify, taking off the shirt and positioning myself over the bowl. It’s only after I’ve rinsed, when I pick up the drying cloth to wipe my face, that I notice Reyne is staring.

  She has seen me shirtless before, on our travels, but never under these circumstances. Never alone in a room with a large bed.

  “Tell me of your meeting,” I say, immediately regretting my words. It is silly of me to think, hope, that her fears might have been eradicated by a single discussion with the queen.

  Reyne sits on the bed, and although she’s been up here for a while now, I catch her glancing about the chamber. I’m suddenly grateful to have been assigned such well-appointed rooms. Once occupied by Cettina’s mother, they were designed for comfort, with velvet-cushioned window seats and the large canopied bed on which Reyne sits. This circular tower is thankfully at the opposite end of the castle and the river, but if it were not, I’d have arranged for us to move. Brightly colored trunks and cupboards that hold all manner of things, from bowls for washing to books that were here when I arrived, line the chamber. A sitting room is attached, one I hardly use and will gladly give up to Reyne.

  Hopefully not for sleeping, however. Unlike some married couples, I plan for her to be in my bed, or our bed, each night.

  “She was exactly as you described her,” Reyne says, her appreciative gaze not lost on me, particularly not on that part of me which is difficult to tame at the moment.

  I splash more cold water on my face. One can never be too clean. When I dry myself again, Reyne doesn’t seem to realize anything is amiss.

  “At first I was afraid. She seemed angry that we’d wed.”

  “Aye,” I agree. “She was angry, at me.”

  Reyne nods. “I realized that, but only after I’d finished being terrified. She has the demeanor of someone twice her age.”

  “A result of being the sole woman in a court of men.”

  “I do not envy her, Erik. She told me she is eager to become friends because she lacks true ones here at court.”

  Fully dried, I move toward a trunk to retrieve a fresh linen shirt.

  “She told you t
hat?”

  “Aye.”

  I pull one out, shake it, and am about to pull it over my head. But Reyne stops me with a look.

  Almost as if . . .

  Tossing the shirt back onto the trunk, I hold her gaze.

  “You’ve won the queen over in one meeting,” I say honestly. “She’d not have said that otherwise.”

  Reyne’s lips part.

  I don’t waste another moment. Though I don’t wish to ruin her hair or dress, I cannot resist my wife. Sitting down next to her, I pull her head toward mine. I’m more than ready for her to become my wife in truth—indeed, the strain of not doing so is nearly killing me—but I’ve vowed to wait for Reyne to tell me she’s ready.

  So instead of ravishing her, as I would like, I coax her lips open and touch my tongue to hers. The sweetness of her quickly overwhelms my good intentions. Very much aware we sit on the precipice of another lesson, as I anxiously await Reyne’s permission to show her how much more pleasure awaits us, I move from her lips downward.

  Lower, and lower still, until I’m all but buried between her breasts. There, I grow bolder than I should, kissing both and plunging my fingers inside her décolletage. The dress is low-cut enough for me to reach her nipple, and I caress it as Reyne grips my bare shoulder.

  Growing hard, but determined not to continue until she wills it, I lift my head and look into her eyes. Uncertainty. Desire. Caring.

  I wonder what she sees in me?

  “Reyne,” I begin, knowing this is the last night we will be together. “We can dine in the hall as planned, or we can eat here. I’ll have food brought to us, if you’d like.”

  “You are not expected in the hall?”

  “Nay,” I assure her. “I am not.”

  “But as commander, I just thought . . . are there not plans to be made for the morrow?”

  That she seems eager to stay encourages me, though I remind myself she is agreeing to dine here, nothing more.

  As of yet.

  “The plans have been made.” My errant hand finally drops to her lap, though it itches to feel more. Explore more. “We leave at dawn for Carwell Castle in Craighcebor. Scouts will move ahead of us to prepare the Lord of Carwell for our arrival. Once there, we will lie low until Whitley and Rawlins surface. We’ve sent word to King Galfrid as well.”